


Knife-Sharpening For Beginners

by Saucery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Aggression, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, Anger, Angry Sex, Angst, Bottom Draco, Casual Sex, Classroom Sex, Confusion, Control Issues, Dark, Denial of Feelings, Desperation, Drama, Dubious Morality, Enemies, Existential Crisis, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Half-Blood Prince AU, Hate Sex, Hatred, Headcanon, Hogwarts Sixth Year, Horny Teenagers, Immobility, Loneliness, Loss of Virginity, Love/Hate, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, One Night Stands, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Possessive Behavior, Power Play, Random Encounters, Regret, Riding, Rough Sex, Sad, Schoolboys, Secrets, Self-Hatred, Smut, Top Harry, Topping from the Bottom, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 00:33:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4458512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco rides Harry. That’s about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knife-Sharpening For Beginners

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place during some nebulous timeframe in _The Half-Blood Prince_ , before Draco “officially” joins the Death Eaters.

* * *

 

“Don’t,” says Draco, and presses Harry down, his palm splayed damply on Harry’s chest. Directly atop Harry’s beating heart.

Harry blinks up at Draco, disbelieving. Draco is flushed all the way to his torso, his skin glowing with a palpable heat that seems equal parts desire and shame.

“Are you okay?” Harry rasps, because he has _some_ decency, and it can’t be all right, that Draco’s face is twisted in a grimace, like he’s in pain. Like he’s hating himself.

Draco bares his teeth. “Shut it, Potter,” he hisses, and he sounds as serpentine as he looks, all smooth lines and fluid muscle, pale and silvery in the semi-dark, limned with sweat. “You’re not fucking me,” he says, like saying it will make it true. “I’m fucking you.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, hoarsely, eyes dropping to where Draco’s riding him. “Yeah. You are.”

Draco tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair, and yanks until Harry’s head snaps back, hitting the floor. Harry winces—and his prick throbs where it’s inside Draco. “Like that, Potter?” Draco jeers. Maybe he intends the question to be mocking, but it emerges shaky, instead. Uncertain.

“I love it. I…”

“Don’t. Say. That. Word.”

Then what else is he supposed to say? Harry yearns to buck upwards, to _shove_ , but if this is the condition for him to get Draco, he’ll settle for it.

Merlin, it’s more than settling. So much more.

Draco fucks himself on Harry, thighs tensing and abdomen clenching with every downward slam of his hips. It’s awkward, like Draco hasn’t done this before, and it must hurt, because Draco’s grimace never completely fades. But it’s still _rutting_ , hard and fast and brutal, like Draco’s punishing himself. Or like he’s deliberately planning to make the ache of it linger for days, to be constantly reminded of having Harry in him, to feel bruised from within, marked in ways that have nothing to do with the Dark Mark he’s terrified of getting.

As if he wants to escape into Harry. As if he wants to be owned by him. Protected. Claimed—

God, no. Harry’s just fantasizing, hoping that this is more than it is, that Draco craves this, craves _him_ , and not merely the most savage, self-erasing, self-destructive sex he can have with a childhood enemy that won’t bother being careful with him.

Harry’s fighting the urge to be careful, though, to cup Draco’s jaw, to slow him down, to kiss him through each thrust. But Harry’s keenly aware that the kindness will be unwelcome, that it’ll be mistaken for pity, or worse, a false mockery of affection. A lie. It’s surprising, how much Draco despises lies, despite lying all the time.

Like he is now. He’s lying with his whole body, except his swollen cock, which is dribbling onto Harry’s belly, honest where Draco is not. Harry trembles with the need to bloody well _move_ , to ram up and into Draco’s too-tight hole, but Draco glares at him with wild, lust-black eyes, and growls:

“If you move—if you so much as twitch, Potter, I swear I’ll climb off you and leave you to wank all alone.”

“Are you sure _you_ can come like this?” Harry challenges, and Draco bites his own lip viciously, leaving it fuller and softer and redder than before. Kissable, but he wont let Harry kiss it, damn him.

“Making a competition out of this, Potter? Because I promise you, you’ll lose.”

And Harry does, with Draco’s cruel grip in his hair, with Draco grinding on his erection. Draco’s features go slack with shock when Harry jerks and stutters out a plea and shoots, pulsing hotly into Draco and praying fervently, stupidly, _desperately_ that Draco will remember this feeling, that Draco will touch himself to it, later, in his bed in the Slytherin dorms, with the curtains drawn and a Silencio to muffle his moans.

The image stuns Harry into coming again, and again, in wrenching shudders that wrack his limbs. Draco takes himself in hand and works himself roughly, gaze fixed unerringly on Harry’s, and when he comes, he grunts like he’s been punched, his eyelids fluttering closed.

Harry stares at him, panting, overwhelmed. Sizzling tremors spark through him, blanking his mind. His lungs burn for air, like he hasn’t been breathing for the last few minutes. He probably hasn’t. Who could, with Draco looking like that, beautiful in his hunger and ugly in his hate?

What makes it worse—better—worse, sod it, is that it’s plain that Draco’s hate is reserved almost entirely for himself. Harry’s an afterthought, in comparison, and that makes Harry both bitter and greedy, makes Harry imagine flipping them and plunging into Draco with abandon, over and over, until Draco goes weak and loose and sloppy, his ankles unlocking, unable to even clasp themselves behind Harry’s waist. Perhaps it’s wrong, to wish that he can ruin Draco before anybody else, that he can break Draco before Voldemort _does_ , and—

He reaches out, across the sticky mess Draco’s left on his stomach, to where Draco’s fingers are still wrapped slickly around himself. Harry twines his fingers with Draco’s slippery ones and tugs, bringing them to his mouth to kiss them with inexplicable gentleness, more tenderly than he himself had expected.

Draco opens his eyes, lost and hazy, as Harry licks the come from his fingertips, sucking them clean.

Harry has no idea what he’s doing, or what it means, but it makes Draco’s expression _crumple_ , for a moment, before it freezes and shatters into a familiar sneer.

Draco snatches his fingers away and hauls himself off Harry, legs shaking. Semen trickles out of Draco and down his inner thighs, so that they gleam wetly, obscenely. He hunts for his wand and casts a scouring spell upon himself, before shrugging on his robes hastily.

Harry raises himself onto his elbows, dizzy from his own orgasm, amazed that Draco can even stand. He himself can’t, not yet, and he wasn’t even the person that got fucked.

Not that Draco got fucked, of course. He was convinced that he was doing the fucking. Right.

Draco limps to the door of the abandoned classroom, without so much as glancing at Harry, and snarls: “This won’t happen again. Forget about it, Potter.”

Forget.

Forget?

Harry’s still trying to think of a reply when Draco departs, slinking out into the corridor that Filch hopefully isn’t monitoring, tonight.

How did this even happen? If Harry hadn’t been following Draco like a shadow, would they have ended up here, shagging like this? What had made their frantic grappling turn into something else, something needier and somehow darker than simple violence? What could possibly have driven Draco to straddle Harry’s lap and _take_ , all while looking like he wanted to give, but couldn’t, shouldn’t, _wouldn’t_?

Dwelling on it is pointless, because there’s no explanation for it. Harry knows that, but he continues to sit there, the warmth leeching from him until he’s shivering, confused, too hollow to be angry. He should be, but he isn’t. He just folds his arms around himself, pulls his knees up to rest his chin on them, and waits for things to make sense again.

They never do.

 

* * *

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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